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I have got a doll that
Came from Paris too;
Well as you!”
Without flounce or curl.
Soft, plain hair brushed back, But the color of her dress was
Sweet surprise ;
Widened in her eyes.
She must do her share. As if God had sent her
Stood she there;
With crossed hands,
To the child's voice given: “ I have a little brother
Gone to heaven!”
On the little party
Dropped a spell ;
Rustled where they fell;
In her mourning gown,
Quick my heart besought her,
Give, oh, give to me
The sweetness of thy grace,
THE LITTLE ORATOR.
(Written for Ed. Everett, and recited by him in childhood.)
PRAY, how should I, a little lad,
In speaking make a figure ?
Do wait till I am bigger.
But since you wish to hear my part,
And urge me to begin it, I'll strive for praise, with all my heart,
Though small the hope to win it.
V'll tell a tale, how Farmer John
A little roan colt bred, sir, And every night and every morn
He watered and he fed, sir.
Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,
A little useless colt, sir?"
Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,
But will do when he's grown up.
The moral you can well espy,
To keep the tale from spoiling; The little colt, you think, is I,
I know it by your smiling.
And now, my friends, please to excuse
My lisping and my stammers;
Thaddeus M. Harris.
THE LITTLE LIGHT.
The light shone dim in the headland,
For the storm was raging high ;
And gazed on the west, gray sky.
The waves were booming loud,
Wove over all a shroud.
“God pity the men on the sea to-night!" I said to
The sound of minute-guns.
(He was wet and cold that night), And he said, “There'll lots of ships go down
On the headland rocks to-night.”
" Let the lamp burn all night, mother,"
Cried little Mary then; “ 'Tis but a little light, but still
It might save drowning men.” “Oh, nonsense !” cried her father (he
Was tired and cross that night), “ The headland lighthouse is enough.”
And he put out the light.
That night, on the rocks below us,
A noble ship went down,
The rest were left to drown.
« Till we saw it sink from view:
My mates might have been here too!”
Then little Mary sobbed aloud,
Her father blushed for shame;
« And I'm the one to blame.”
And trifling was its cost,
And a hundred souls were lost.
THE WISH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE flowers, one day, amid the scented air,